The St. Johns herald., 1887-11-17
Bill Nye OF Buffalo Williams Cow
 Boy CruSada of Europe.

would seem to indicate that the coming year will witness a large hegira of armed goslings from Eng land who intend to prosecute the COW gentleman and Deadwood stage robbing business on our frontier. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that Buffalo William, the graceful and courteous hirsute wonder from Nebraska, is largely responsible for this. Wherever he has gone with his eccentric, dark-red, self-made Indians, and his speckled broncos, he has sown the seeds of discon- tent in the grammar schools and bred open rebellion and mutiny in the primary department.
 Look along the red-hot trail of B. William and you find the Amer ican and foreign youth alike turn ing with undisguised loathing from his educational pursuits to immerse his legs in a pair of chaperajos, to wild the brief, but stinging quirt, to whoop up the red-eyed, naughty and high-tailed Texan maverick, or shoot large, irregular holes into the otherwise poorly-ventilated savage.
 And what is to be the result of all this? I do not ask it in a light and fiippant manner, but in a tone of deepest solicitude.
 Buffalo Bill is encircling the earth with his Wild West show. Everywhere the fever follows his performances. Wherever he goes high-heeled boots, lariats, tarantu- "a juice and hair rise to a fictitious value. Boys leave the farm to fol- low the show away. Picnics lose their flavor and seem flat. Climb ing a shagbark tree to fasten a swing does not seem so daring a feat as 1t used to. The custard pie vainly beckons to the young man who IS near-sighted and wears lav- ender pantaloons to come and sit on 1t. In the rural districts the watermelon ripens and goes to de- cay, and petty larceny everywhere seems tame, dull and fabby NoI one wants to steal wealth unless it | has gore and hair onit Dollars or watermelons that can be taken with out walking over a corduroy road of dead bodies seems hardly worth taking.
 Already this tide of young and fuzzy cowboys has set in from the mother country and an extra detec- tive and police force haunt the wharf of Liverpool to prevent the exodus of leggy and pimply young patriots who desire to roll up their trousers and wade in the hot, fresh blood of our rapidly disappearing
  red men. Already every steamer that blows the wide waste of boom ing moisture which separates us from the home of the patient yacht builder brings from one to several aspiring young gentlemen in fan nel shirts who pant to imbrue their hands in the blood of Old-Glt- Up and-Sit-DoWn.
 And so it is likely to continue while MT. Bill is on his wild, whoop- ing, shrieking and Coliseum-storm- ing career. After awhile it will not be the British Isles alone that will contribute to our languishing iron tier cemeteries but, saturated with a wild desire to snort across the plains and provide them selves with Indian Pocahontases, the youth of all lands and all climes will buy wide, white, soft hats, fur pantaloons, with lambrequins down the sides; the low, gruf-voiced revolver, with the dry, hacking cough; the noisy and vol luminous Mexican spur and the mustang with one white eye and the gift of appearing to go like cyclone, while really making poor time. Then they will invade our Western borders and there will not be an Indian apiece